


In the Armory

by Eralk Fang (EralkFang)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, I guess???, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EralkFang/pseuds/Eralk%20Fang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Hux and Kylo Ren have an arrangement. It’s not <em>enough</em>, but it’s something.</p><p>But Phasma would be enough. More than enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Armory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at tfa_kink:
>
>> Phasma is doing exercise/sparring match with her troops, Kylo and Hux are watching and both grow hard and bothered like horny teenagers. 
>> 
>> +both have a genuine crush on her and compete for her...affection(?)
>> 
>> ++they end jerking each other off in a corner.
>> 
>> +++Phasma catches them and, damn the rank, they are going to be 'punished'

Even now, at this late hour, there are those in the First Order that question General Hux’s methods, that still believe in the superiority of a clone army despite their obvious drawbacks. With the Supreme Leader’s support firmly behind him, they wouldn’t dare express that sentiment to his face, nor would he accuse them of such disloyalty.

Still, he cherishes the look on their faces when they see the fruits of his labor firsthand and realize that they could not be more wrong.

The admiral’s face has betrayed nothing so far on her tour of the Finalizer, but Hux catches the infinitesimal widening of her eyes as her eyes light on JB-007 and Phasma in the training ring, unmasked and dressed simply.

It’s pure theater, but all the best propaganda is. And it’s a calculated play to the admiral’s tastes—Hux has made it his business to know that she enjoys the company of tall, strapping blondes.

It’s a predilection he’s found himself to share as of late, he thinks, eyeing Phasma’s bare feet.

JB-007 and Phasma salute their superior officers. While Phasma, despite her insistence on the rank of Captain, technically outranks the admiral, she directs her salute to her, a faint smile playing on her lips. 

Hux swallows. “Don’t let us interrupt.”

“We were just finishing,” JB-007 says smoothly. “Best two out of three, Captain?”

Phasma raises her staff and inclines her head.

There’s no more inspiring sight than Phasma doing what she does best. There’s strength behind every blow—JB-007’s otherwise flawless blocks are shaky from the sheer effort of fending her off—but she’s still so _graceful_. It’s a grace born of knowing her instrument inside and out, able to trust her body to execute her will so completely that to see her move is to see her think. It’s a privilege to watch her fight, very inch of her impressive height, every ounce of her impressive strength, so obviously dedicated to the cause. 

Hux hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath when Phasma sweeps JB-007 off his feet and he gives a quiet gasp. The sharp thud of his back against the mats seems to echo in the training barracks. Phasma plants a foot on JB-007’s chest and presses the end of her staff to his neck. Phasma, sweaty and triumphant, is a glorious sight. A single curl of her short blonde hair has fallen in her eyes, and she grins, panting and victorious. Hux’s pulse quickens. 

“Yield!” JB-007 grunts, and Phasma steps lightly off of him, offering a civilized hand up. They shake hands. 

“Most impressive,” the admiral says, seemingly entranced. 

“Captain Phasma’s record is spotless,” says a deep, distorted voice. Hux had almost forgotten Lord Ren was with them. He rarely interacts with visiting personnel, unless at Hux’s insistence—in this case, to gently probe the admiral’s mind while she was otherwise distracted. “She inspires considerable loyalty in her troops. Deservedly so.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Phasma says. 

“I assume this is just a portion of your training facility?” The admiral asks, taking a step towards the ring.

“Yes, of course,” Phasma answers. “If the admiral doesn’t mind my appearance, I’d be happy to show you. That is, if the General—?”

“Yes, of course,” Hux says. “I’ll see you at dinner, Admiral.” 

He and Ren turn and close rank as they exit the barracks. Upon achieving the corridor, Hux asks, “Well?”

“She’s going to ask to you transfer someone from her command to the kyber crystal mining plant.”

“An odd request.” 

“An urgent one. I sensed reluctance on her part. She’s resentful. Her hand is being forced. I suspect blackmail or other pressing influence. There’s more to this than a transfer request. This may be related to the missing crystals.” 

Hux nods. “I’ll have it investigated, but quietly. I don’t want tip our hand. Anything else?”

Ren’s helmed head tilts, and Hux feels an invisible pressure on his stomach, sliding slowly down. It vanishes before it reaches its goal, but he knows the summons and its source.

He considers, staring into Ren’s expressionless helmet. They have time before Hux’s dinner with the admiral, and Phasma’s sparring match has left him hotter under the collar than he would prefer. Ren’s timing with this offer is uncharacteristically apt—he should reward this, encourage it. 

He nods.

 

Before the door to the armory even shuts behind them, Ren has his helmet in one hand and Hux’s face in the other, crowding him. He kisses Hux with all the subtlety and finesse of a wild animal. The onslaught forces Hux to back up, and he almost stumbles when the backs of his thighs hit the edge of a table. Ren sets his helmet down on the table and lifts Hux easily by the hips onto it. 

He’s so _strong_ , Ren, even without the Force. It inflames Hux.

Phasma’s unfelt strength would do the same, he thinks. 

The cold of the plasteel seeps into the backs of Hux’s thighs as he wraps his legs around Ren to draw him flush, grinding their hips together roughly. Ren grunts and kisses him again. It’s one of his favorite things about this arrangement—access to Ren’s surprisingly lush mouth. 

It’s not much of an arrangement, to be honest. It’s all stolen kisses, dry humping, and, if he’s lucky, handjobs in supply closets, like they’re teenagers instead of grown men. Ren controls their pace—Hux isn’t stupid enough to press a man who can kill him with a thought, especially with that man’s hand on his cock. It’s not _enough_ , but it’s something.

Phasma would be enough. More than enough.

Even as he groans into Ren’s mouth, he’s comparing—how she’d feel in his arms, how she’d growl deep in her throat, how her breasts would feel pressed against him instead of the flat of Ren’s chest.

The thought goes straight to his cock. He pulls at Ren’s robes ineffectually, grinding relentlessly. Ren bites his lower lip and pulls back, panting, to stare into Hux’s eyes. 

“I see her,” Ren pants. “In your mind. You’re thinking about her.”

“Yes,” Hux admits. He lifts his chin defiantly. “What of it?” 

“Show me.” Ren’s voice is always deep, but there’s an edge to it now that reminds Hux of his mask’s vocal distorter. “What would she do to you?”

It’s about as much consent for reading his mind as Ren has ever asked for. Hux closes his eyes and lets his mind fill with images. The curve of Phasma’s smirk, the stillness of how she holds her head, sweat on her clavicle and how that skin would feel under his tongue, how her breasts would feel, cupped in his hands, the brief softness there against the firm strength of her chest—

_Her nipple against my palm—_

Hux grunts as the telltale ache of Ren’s mental interference spreads through his head. Ren’s telepathic communiqués are rarely so focused, so articulate. Hux experiences them largely as either sudden compulsions or physical assault. The image subsides, leaving behind the strange impression of having been in Ren’s body. He’s hard, cock straining against his fly. Ren presses his forehead to Hux’s, and Hux is seized by the brief, stupid notion that this is somehow amplifying the telepathy before Ren kisses him, mouth open. 

Hux whines, and imagines the pleasure of penetrating Phasma, her naked flesh against his, hands on her hips. She’d gasp, he would make her gasp, but she’d meet him blow for blow. Ren’s gloveless hand creeps down the front of his trousers, and he can’t help but think about how much he’d prefer Phasma in his warm bed to this in the cold armory.

Suddenly, the slight headache recedes, leaving Hux feeling, inexplicably, cold. Ren’s hand is motionless on his cock, on the outside of his pants. Hux reaches for the hem of Ren’s tunic, but Ren bats his hand away. He’s staring at him grimly, his jaw working.

Hux makes the connection, and fury and pity seize him in equal measure. Oh, how _childish_ , to get offended by the idea that Hux might prefer fucking Phasma to Ren’s furtive table scraps. Hux rolls his eyes elaborately and opens his mouth to berate Ren for this nonsense, when Ren removes his hand from Hux’s trousers and falls, heavily, to his knees.

All thoughts of Phasma flee Hux. It’s obvious what Ren is preparing to do, but Hux is transfixed. For some reason, his body is reacting as if none of his lovers have ever done this before, as if this is the first time he’s crossed this particular boundary. 

He’s never even seen Ren naked, he thinks, absurdly. 

Ren unbuckles Hux’s belt, unzips his fly, and pulls his pants down, freeing his cock. They both watch as it springs to attention. Ren’s breath is hot against the underside of Hux’s cock. Hux stares down, as Ren seems to consider the logistics of the challenge he has set himself. He chews on his lower lip for a moment, eyes appraising. The flash of that pink tongue so close to his pink cock makes Hux’s head swim. 

Ren takes a determined breath and then, carefully, runs the flat of his tongue up the vein on the underside of Hux’s cock in a single, studied stroke. Hux shudders bodily. 

“Look at me,” Ren orders, as if Hux could do anything but. Ren presses his lower lip into the tip of his cock until it pulls down slightly, revealing his teeth. Hux’s cock pulses and leaks precome, but Ren just licks his lips of it, slowly, never taking his eyes off of Hux’s. The idea of Ren swallowing his seed the same way—never breaking eye contact or composure while his Adam’s apple bobs—makes Hux even harder. Ren curls and undulates his tongue against the head of Hux’s cock before taking it, tentatively, into his mouth. Hux resists the urge to press on into that wet, panting heat, clenching his fingers around the side of the table. 

The door opens. 

Both Ren and Hux involuntarily turn their heads to stare. Hux hisses as the sensitive tip of his cock brushes against the inside of Ren’s cheek as he pulls off. 

It’s Phasma—tour finished, come to return the staff to the armory per protocol. She’s no longer sweaty, but still glowing, still impressive, still beautiful. She gives them the once over and closes the door behind her, crossing her arms. 

In a single moment, Hux is seized by several conflicting emotions—the horror of having been caught with his cock in Kylo Ren’s mouth, the shame of being caught fooling around with someone else by someone he actively wants to sleep with, and the desperate need for Ren to _keep going_. But Ren is as much frozen in shock as he is. 

Only Phasma is nonplussed. She scans them coolly, making every inch of Hux’s flesh burn, before raising an eyebrow. 

“Well?” she asks, addressing Ren, but gazing steadily into Hux’s eyes. She jerks her chin in Hux’s direction. “Make him come.”

Ren obeys, and, soon, so does Hux.


End file.
